How Is This Possible?

Across the room, Cassandra Sterling felt her composure fraying at the edges.

Julian Thorne was still absent.

Each ticking second amplified the dread coiling in her stomach.

She couldn't rationalize it, but a primal instinct screamed that things had gone terribly wrong.

Genevieve Prescott's sharp intake of breath cut the silence. "Cassandra! We have a problem! Evelyn just posted a rebuttal on Twitter!"

Cassandra's heart hammered against her ribs. She snatched her phone, her fingers flying to open the app.

There it was—Evelyn's post, staring back at her from the screen.

A clarification had been dropped thirty minutes ago, supported by irrefutable evidence.

The narrative online had flipped completely.

Where Evelyn had been drowning in public contempt, the current had now reversed. The mob was rallying to her defense, their accusations turning toward Julian.

Cassandra stared, her face a mask of stunned incredulity.

"How is this possible?" Her voice was a shaky whisper. "Nathanial swore he obliterated all of Evelyn's evidence. How does she still have proof?"

Scrutinizing the post, Cassandra spotted the damning detail—Evelyn had used her personal signature on the design drafts as verification.

White-hot rage erupted within her.

She spun toward Genevieve, her gaze venomous. "Have you lost your mind? When you acquired Evelyn's designs, why didn't you alter them? As a designer, how could you be so foolish as to copy them directly?"

Genevieve stood frozen, the cleverness of Evelyn's safeguard dawning on her.

When she had presented the designs to Julian, she had only made superficial adjustments, completely oblivious to the hidden security measure embedded within the files.

Humiliation burned her cheeks as the magnitude of her error crashed down.

This wasn't just a mistake; it was a catastrophe, and Cassandra's fury promised severe repercussions. Desperation fueled her attempt to deflect the blame.

"Cassandra, this isn't my fault! How could anyone predict Julian would be so incompetent? The responsibility lies entirely with him!"

In a panicked addition, she cried, "Julian was supposed to be here. Why hasn't he shown up? Do you think he's fled?"

Cassandra's eyes narrowed to slits, her jaw tight. "If that coward has actually run, it's over for him. I will find him, and he will pay dearly for this."

A voice interrupted from the doorway. "Miss Sterling, Mr. Julian Thorne is here to see you."

A spark of grim determination ignited in Cassandra's eyes. "Send him in. Immediately," she commanded.

Meanwhile, Julian Thorne stood nervously at the entrance to Serenity Oaks.

He had seen the online firestorm on his way over.

Everything was exposed. There was no escape from the fallout now.

His initial impulse had been to run—to disappear from Crestwood, assume a new identity, and hope his betrayal was forgotten.

But as the fantasy faded, a wave of bitter resentment washed over him.

He had lost everything, while Cassandra and Genevieve remained untouched, their privileged lives undisturbed.

This was their doing.

He remembered their condescending treatment, the way they looked down on him as if he were insignificant.

Why? Simply because of their wealth? What gave them the right to treat him with such contempt?